Lying crumpled by the deep end was a damp, unfamiliar t-shirt. It smelled faintly of chlorine and someone else’s sweat. The realization hit him hard: they weren’t just ignoring boundaries; they were using his sanctuary as their personal playground when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Arthur wasn’t a confrontational man, but his peace was non-negotiable. Holding the damp shirt, he marched next door and knocked firmly. The young husband answered, phone in hand, looking annoyed at the interruption.
“This was by my pool,” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Please stop using my property without permission. I value my privacy.”
The young man smirked, glancing back into his house. “You’re imagining things, old man. Probably wind blowing trash around.”